A cloud passed over the other woman’s face. “I aged into my body. People began to notice.”

  “Men?” It didn’t have to be a question. Penelope knew the answer. A face like Worth’s could not hide for long even in the kitchens of a gaming hell.

  “The employees did everything they could to keep the members from getting too close—not just to me—to all the girls.” Penelope leaned forward, knowing what was coming. Loathing it. Wishing she could erase the words before they were spoken. “But I was careless. Powerful men can be persistent. Wealthy men can be a temptation. And the entire sex are pretty liars when they want to be.”

  Penelope knew it. Her husband was as silver-tongued as they came.

  Worth’s smile was sad. “Bourne found us.”

  Penelope watched as the other woman ran a finger across the gilded frame of a large oil painting on the wall. “He was furious,” she said, knowing instinctively that—whatever his faults—her husband would never have stood for such behavior.

  “He nearly killed the man.” Penelope felt a surge of pride as Worth continued. “For all his darkness . . . for all his selfishness . . . he’s a good man.” She stepped back, assessing Penelope’s garments. “If you’re going to march into The Angel, you’re going to have to enter through the owner’s entrance. It’s the only way you’ll get onto the main floor. And you’ll need a cloak with a larger hood if you’re going to keep your face covered.”

  Penelope hadn’t thought of that. She crossed the room, passing into the dimly lit hallway beyond. “Thank you.”

  “He’ll be furious when you get there,” Worth added. “My note will not have helped.” She paused. “I am sorry about that.”

  Penelope cut Worth a look as they reached the foot of the stairs. “I shall collect on that debt,” Penelope said, “but not tonight. Tonight, I shall simply tell you that your message was incomplete. And I intend to deliver the rest of it in person.”

  * * *

  Dear M—

  My birthday has come again, and this one more troublesome than any of those prior. My mother is ready to host a coming-out ball, and I am targeted as the fatted calf (It’s not the most becoming of metaphors, is it?). At any rate, she’s already making plans for March, if you can believe it—I’m certain I shan’t last the winter.

  Do promise you’ll come to the fated event . . . I know that twenty is far too young for you to be attending balls or caring a bit about the season, but it would be nice to see a friendly face.

  Always—P

  Needham Manor, August 1820

  No reply

  “You should be at home with your wife.”

  Bourne did not turn away from his place at the window overlooking the pit floor of The Fallen Angel. “My wife is tucked safely in her bed, asleep.”

  He knew how that would look, Penelope in her pristine, white linen nightgown, wrapped in a collection of blankets, curled on her side, her blond hair spread out like a wave behind her—sighing a sweet little sigh in her sleep, tempting him, even in fantasy.

  Or, even better, in his bed, on his fur, lush and waiting to be discovered.

  The days since she’d requested he not touch her had been interminable.

  The night at Tottenham’s had begun with a single, achievable goal—to lay the foundation of Bourne and Penelope’s false love for the rest of society. But then she’d gone and stood strong in that viper pit of a dining room, bolstering his story, feigning fondness and devotion and, ultimately, defending him in her perfect, cultured way.

  As much as he’d told himself that he had gone after her to further convince Tottenham’s guests of his fascination with his new wife, he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true. The guests had been far from his mind, and his fascination had been nothing close to fraudulent. He’d had to touch her. He’d had to be close to her.

  The moment he’d kissed her, he’d lost control of the situation—gasping for breath, clutching her to him, wishing that they were anywhere but there, in that hallway, in that house, with those people. He’d wanted to murder Tottenham for interrupting them, but God knew what would have happened if the viscount hadn’t done just that, considering that Bourne had been seriously considering lifting his bride’s skirts, lowering himself to his knees, and showing her precisely where pleasure could take them both when the viscount had cleared his throat—and Bourne’s head.

  She’d gone statue-still in his arms, and he’d known in that moment that she’d believed the worst of him. She’d believed it had all been concocted for Tottenham’s benefit . . . and it had—but Bourne hadn’t expected it to go so far. And he’d never admit to her that he’d been just as carried away as she was.

  So he’d told her the truth about the arrangement, knowing that the words would sting. Knowing she’d hate him more for deceiving her. And when she’d pronounced, with all the poise of a queen, that he was not to touch her again, he’d known it was best for them both.

  Even if he’d wanted nothing more than to take her home and make her recant the words.

  Chase tried again. “You’ve been here every night since your return.”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “I know women. And I know they do not like to be ignored.”

  Bourne did not reply.

  “I hear that you’re angling for one of the Marbury girls to become Lady Tottenham.”

  Bourne narrowed his gaze. “You hear.”

  Chase shrugged one shoulder and smirked. “I have my sources.”

  Bourne turned back to the window, watching Tottenham far below at the piquet table. “The unmarried young ladies Marbury are just today in town. That gives me a few days to secure the interest of the viscount.”

  “So the dinner was a success?”

  “I dream of invitations arriving in droves.”

  Chase laughed. “Poor, sad Bourne. Forced to restore the only thing he doesn’t want for the only thing he does.” Bourne leveled Chase with a look, but he did not disagree. “You realize that the club has made you more money than you could ever spend, and that there’s no reason at all for you to prove yourself by exacting your revenge, do you not?”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  “What is it about, then, the title? The way he cheapened it?”

  “I don’t care about the title.”

  “Of course you do. You’re just like every other peer—consumed with the magical power of your title. Even if you resent it.” Chase paused. “Not that it matters anymore. You’ve married the girl, and you’re well down the road to revenge. Or is it resurrection?”

  Bourne scowled through the red stained glass that marked a flame of hell, through which he could see the roulette wheel spinning far below. “I’ve no plans for resurrection. I shall do what is necessary to ruin Langford. And once that is done, I’m returning to my life.”

  “Without her?”

  “Without her.” But he wanted her.

  He’d gone without things he wanted before. Survived.

  “And how do you expect to explain that to the lady?”

  “She doesn’t need me to have the life she wants. She can live where she wants, the way she wants, on my land, with my money. I’m happy to leave her to it.” He’d said it before, more than once, but it was becoming more difficult to believe.

  “How do you envision that happening?” Chase fairly drawled. “You are married.”

  “There are ways for her to be happy nonetheless.”

  “And is that what you are looking for? Her happiness?”

  He considered the words, heard the surprise in Chase’s tone. He certainly had not begun this journey with any thought of Penelope’s happiness. And still—even as he knew it made him the worst possible kind of husband—he would sacrifice her happiness for his revenge. But he was not a monster; if he could, he would keep her happy and ruin Langford.

  As proof, he would honor her request not to touch her.

  For he knew well enough that making a habit of taking his perfect, virginal bride to bed would be a mistake, as she was precisely the kind of woman who would want more.

  Far more than he had to give.

  So he would stay the hell away from her.

  Even if he wanted her more than he could say.

  “I forced her to marry me for a piece of land. The least I can do is think about what might make the lady content after our marriage has served its purpose. I’m sending her away the moment proof of Langford’s fall is mine.”

  “Why?”

  Because she deserves more.

  He feigned disinterest. “I promised her freedom. And adventure.”

  Chase chuckled at that. “Did you? I’m sure she was thrilled to accept it. She’s waited a long time since that first proposal—long enough to realize that most marriages aren’t worth the paper on which the licenses are printed. So you’ll honor the promise?”

  Bourne did not look away from the pit floor. “I will.”

  “Any adventure?”

  Bourne turned his head. “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, in my experience, ladies with excitement in their reach are rather . . . creative. Are you prepared for her to travel the globe? To toss your money away on frivolities? To host raucous parties and scandalize the ton? To take a lover?”

  The last was spoken casually, but Bourne knew Chase was deliberately taunting him. “She may do whatever she likes.”

  “So, should the lady choose, you’d allow her to cuckold you?”

  He knew it was bait. Knew he should not rise. His fists clenched, nonetheless. “If she is discreet, it is not my concern.”

  “You don’t want her for yourself?”

  “No.” Liar.

  “An unsatisfying experience, was it? Best to let another handle her, then.”

  Bourne resisted the urge to put Chase straight into the wall. He hated the very idea of another man’s touching her. Another man’s discovering her eagerness, her passion—more tempting than cards, than billiards, than roulette. She threatened his control, his tightly leashed desires, his long-hidden conscience.

  He could not make her happy.

  And it was only a matter of time before he would want to.

  It was better this way.

  For both of them.

  The door to the owners’ suite opened, and Temple saved Bourne from having to continue the irritating conversation. The third man’s hulking silhouette blocked out the light beyond as he crossed the room. It was Saturday evening, and Chase, Cross, and Temple had a standing faro game.

  Cross followed behind Temple, shuffling a deck of cards. He spoke, surprise in his tone. “Bourne is playing?”

  Bourne ignored the temptation that flared at the question. He wanted to play. He wanted to lose himself in the simple, straightforward rules of the game. He wanted to pretend that there was nothing more to life than luck.

  But he knew better.

  Luck had not been on his side for a very long time.

  “I’m not playing.”

  The three hadn’t really expected him to join, but they always asked. Chase met his eyes. “Stay for a drink, then.”

  If he stayed, Chase would push him farther. Would ask him more.

  But if he left, Penelope would haunt him, making him feel like a dozen kinds of fool.

  He stayed.

  The others had taken their seats at the owners’ table, used only for this game—Temple, Cross, and Chase the only players. Bourne sat in the fourth chair, always at the table, never at the game.

  Temple shuffled the cards, and Michael watched as they fanned through the big man’s fingers once, twice, before they flew across the table, the rhythm of smooth paper against thick baize a temptation in itself.

  They’d played two hands in silence before Chase’s question came, clear and unyielding across the table. “And when she desires children?”

  Temple and Cross hesitated in considering their cards, the question so unexpected that they could not help but show their interest. Cross spoke first, “When who desires children?”

  Chase leaned back. “Bourne’s Penelope.”

  Bourne did not like the possessive description.

  Or perhaps he liked it too much.

  Children. They would require more than a father in London and a mother in the country. They would require more than a childhood spent living in the shadow of a gaming hell. And if they were girls, they would require more than a father with a sordid reputation. A father who ruined everything he touched.

  Including their mother.

  Shit.

  “She will want them,” Chase pressed on. “She’s the type to want them.”

  “How would you know?” Bourne asked, irritated that this was even a topic of discussion.

  “I know a great deal about the lady.”

  Temple and Cross now swung their attention to Chase. “Honestly?” Temple asked, disbelief in his tone.

  “Is she horsefaced?” Cross asked. “Bourne says she’s not, but I think that must be the reason why he’s here with us instead of home, showing her how entertaining the late-night experiences of the Marchioness of Bourne can be.”

  Irritation flared in Bourne. “Not all of us spend our evenings rutting like pigs.”

  Cross considered his cards once more. “I prefer rabbits,” he said casually, drawing a bark of laughter from Temple before he looked to Chase once more. “Honestly, though. Tell us about the new Lady Bourne?”

  Chase discarded. “She is not horsefaced.”

  Bourne gritted his teeth. No. She isn’t.

  Cross leaned forward. “Is she dull?”

  “To my knowledge, no,” Chase said, before turning to Bourne. “Is she dull?”

  A vision flashed of Penelope traipsing through the snow in the dead of night with a lantern before announcing that she was in search of inland pirates, followed by a memory of her naked, spread across his fur coverlet. He shifted in his seat. “She is in no way dull.”

  Temple lifted a card. “Then what is wrong with you?”

  There was a pause, and Bourne looked from one partner to the next, each wider-eyed than the last. “Honestly, you’re all like gossiping, scandal-loving women.”

  Chase raised a brow. “For that, I’m telling them.” There was a pause, as the others leaned forward, waiting. “What’s wrong with him is that he’s committed to sending the lady away.”

  Temple looked up. “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  Cross pursed his lips together and turned to Bourne. “Is it because she was a virgin? Really, Bourne. You can’t fault her for that. I mean, Lord knows why, but most of the aristocratic nobs out there value the trait. Give her time. She’ll learn.”

  Bourne clenched his teeth. “She did just fine.”

  Temple leaned in, all seriousness. “Did she not like it?”

  Chase snickered, and Bourne narrowed his eyes to slits. “You are enjoying yourself, are you not?”

  “Quite.”

  “Perhaps you could ask Worth for some advice,” Cross offered, discarding.

  Chase picked up the card. “I’m happy to share from my personal experience, if you like.”

  Temple grinned at his hand. “And I.”

  It was all too much. “I do not need advice. She enjoyed it immensely.”

  “I hear they don’t all enjoy it right off the bat,” Cross said.

  “That is true,” Chase said, all expertise.

  “It’s fine if she didn’t, old man,” Temple offered. “You can try again.”

  “She enjoyed it.” Bourne’s voice was low and tight, and he thought he might kill the next person who spoke.

  “Well, one thing is for certain,” Temple said, casually, and Bourne ignored the pang of disappointment that the enormous man was very likely the only one at the table he could not kill.

  “What’s that?” Chase asked, discarding.

  “If she wants children, someone’s going to have to do the deed.”

  If she wanted children, he would do the deed.

  Cross discarded. “If you’re sure she’s not ugly, I’m happy to—”

  He did not finish the sentence. Bourne lunged at him, and the two went tumbling to the floor, in a cacophony of broken chairs, laughter, and the sound of flesh hitting bone.

  Temple sighed, throwing his cards down to the table. “These games never end the way cards are supposed to end.”

  “I thought good card games always end in a brawl,” Chase said. Cross and Bourne rolled into a chair, toppling it over as Justin entered the suite. The bespectacled man ignored Bourne and Cross, tumbling across the floor, and leaned low to whisper something to Temple and Chase.

  Temple entered the fray then, a stray fist grazing the high arch of one of his cheeks, eliciting a wicked curse before he yanked Cross from Bourne. Pulling out a handkerchief, Cross wiped the blood from a cut just above his eye and leveled a long, knowing look at Bourne. “If you’re this high-strung on the first week of your marriage, you need to get that wife of yours into bed, or you need to get her out of your house.”

  Bourne wiped a hand along one swollen lip, knowing the words were true.

  “I need her. Without her, I haven’t got Langford.”

  And if I touch her again, I might not let her go.

  And then he’d ruin her just as he’d ruined everything else of value he’d ever had.

  Cross’s eyes gleamed, one fast swelling shut, as though he’d heard Bourne’s thought with crystal clarity. “That limits your options, then.”

  “Bourne,” Justin said, drawing his attention, “you’ve a note from Worth.”

  A thrum of unease coursed through Bourne as he broke the seal of Hell House and read the few lines of text scrawled hastily across the paper. Disbelief and fury shot through him at the words.

  Tommy Alles was in his house. With his wife.